


The woods are just trees; the trees are just wood

by marginaliana



Category: Into the Woods - Sondheim/Lapine
Genre: Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Parenthood, Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27877466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: Mothers and children in the woods.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The woods are just trees; the trees are just wood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EighteenWheelsandADozenRoses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EighteenWheelsandADozenRoses/gifts).



"This is ridiculous," said the baker's wife, gesturing wildly with one of her branches. "You, that makes sense. You're a witch, you're cursed, you turn into trees. Fine. But me? I'm supposed to be dead. Not… whatever this is."

The witch raised a row of leaves at her. "So what, you're complaining?"

"No, of course not!" said the baker's wife. "But you have to admit it's out of the ordinary."

"We're in the woods," said the witch. "Anything can happen. Trust me, I've been cursed before."

"Every one of them deserved, I'm sure."

"Oh yes," the witch said, utterly unrepentant. "But what's life if you're too boring to get cursed?"

"A happy one," said another rustling voice, this one pitched high. 

The baker's wife recognized Jack's mother. She sighed. "Is _everyone_ who dies here going to turn into trees?"

"I hope not," said the witch. "If so, the place is going to get very crowded very quickly."

"Not to mention the giants," said Jack's mother.

There was a long silence. The baker's wife cast her thoughts outwards through her trees, searching for the sound or the feel of anything… big.

"I don't think so," she said at last. The other two let out fluttering sighs of relief, and then another silence came.

"Do you think we'll see our children again?" said Jack's mother at last.

The baker's wife gave a snorting thump of branch to tree trunk. "Not if they're smart. It's dangerous here."

"We'll see them someday, then," said the witch. "Someday or another, they'll come, seeking the deepest desire of their hearts. They'll know the danger and still they'll come." The words were quiet, and then her branches shuddered, shaking off the mood. "For now, though… I think I'll try to grow some greens."

* * *

Two years passed, and then there were two children in the woods. A boy and a girl, hair pale enough to gleam even in the dark under the trees, faces so similar that they must be sister and brother. They kept close to each other, arms linked, though both of their heads turned from side to side, watching the ground as if searching for something. On occasion they spotted a bush of berries and hurried to it with exclamations of delight, cramming fruit into their mouths as if they'd had nothing to eat for days.

"Poor little fools," said Jack's mother quietly. "That's not the right way to eat when you're hungry." She sounded resigned, but a few of her branches were quivering. "Save some for later, children. Make it last."

The baker's wife thought of Jack going to the market to sell his cow and coming home with a handful of beans. Something rose inside her, a thrum of sap warm enough to feel like shame. "I wish we could do something for them," she murmured. 

There was a hum from the witch, a sound like animals burrowing through soil. A line of her yew trees tiptoed backwards with a roll of root. Just a little. Just enough to make a new path. A few upper leaves thinned out, curling silently into themselves, making the path dapple enticingly with sunlight amidst the shadow of the wood.

"What are you doing?" hissed the baker's wife with a rustle.

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

A vine curled along the ground, catching the attention of the children like a beckoning finger. The baker's wife reached to still it with her mind, but the witch's hold was too strong. 

The little girl tugged on her brother's hand. They exchanged a whispered word, and then another – a small argument too quiet to hear. For a moment the little boy looked mutinous, but his sister's bright eyes seemed to pierce something in him and he nodded at last. 

They loaded the rest of the berries into the pocket of the girl's dirty apron and turned down the new path – no longer searching along the ground but taking the easiest way instead, walking wherever the path was clearest. 

"You're leading these children astray!" said the baker's wife. She hurried to follow, mind darting from tree to tree among the ones that were hers, swaying the branches of willows and scattering the needles of pines.

"Astray is such a harsh word," said the witch. "I'm giving them a little direction, that's all."

"To where?"

"Somewhere they'll be safe."

" _Where_? Back to their home?"

Jack's mother broke in. "They wouldn't be out here if they had a home to go to," she said. 

"And I still have that little tower," said the witch. 

"So desperate for a child," the baker's wife sneered.

"I'd expect you to understand that," the witch said, with a tart snap of a branch. The baker's wife fell silent. After a moment something in a nearby tree softened. "I'm not the only witch out here, you know," she replied. "There's another – I'm surprised you didn't manage to run into her. She's a little bit… greedy."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you," said the baker's wife, but it had no bite to it.

"Greedy for human flesh," the witch qualified. "She's got a house made of candy and a nice big oven inside. Big enough for a child."

"Ah."

"Tried to make off with some of my greens for a side dish once, but I put a stop to that." She turned a beady knothole of an eye on the baker's wife. "Still think I ought to let them go stumbling along on their own?"

The baker's wife hesitated. "I suppose that tower wouldn't be such a bad place for children to grow up in. At least for a little while, until someone comes who can make a real home for them."

"And they'll have a mother," said the witch.

"Two," added Jack's mother.

"Three, then," said the baker's wife, and that was that.

* * *

Four years passed, and a boy and his mother came into the woods. The boy was just old enough not to want to hold his mother's hand, just young enough that she would not let him go.

A distant song preceded their arrival, wordless and haunting, somehow familiar; the baker's wife knew that the others were drawn to it just as she was, but none of them had time to move far from the tower before they saw them.

The mother looked much like any other, but the boy… oh, the boy. The baker's wife knew him instantly by the turn up of his nose, by the crookedness of his smile. This was her son. The child she had begged for, the child she had sacrificed everything to bring into life. Her son.

Behind her, the witch's tower loomed between winter branches. She watched as the boy pointed at it. "There, mother," he said. He was not looking at her. He looked at the woods, at the woman by his side, but he did not look at _her_. "There's the tower."

"Well spotted," said the woman. The baker's wife darted a reluctant glance at her, which was enough for recognition to bloom. The woman with the prince, with the shoe. Cinderella, that was her name.

And now she was raising a boy who was not her son, and he called her 'mother.'

Cinderella lifted a hand and ruffled the boy's head briefly, then led him to the tower. She hesitated at its base for a moment, then called up. "Is anyone there?"

Two heads appeared at the window – pale-haired still but rosy-cheeked now, filled out and healthy. Hansel, one was, and Gretel the other. 

"Hello?" said Hansel.

"Where is your mother?" Cinderella asked.

"Our mother is the trees," said Hansel.

"Our mother is the breeze," said Gretel.

"… Be serious, please," said Cinderella. 

Gretel giggled. "But it's true," she said. "We know no other. The trees bring us food and water. Branches rock our beds to send us to sleep and leaves blow cool winds when we are ill. Before we came here, we had a mother that sent us out to starve. Now we have the woods."

"Come down, then," said Cinderella. "I'll take you out of here to a real home."

Hansel and Gretel stared at her. "Why would we want to do that? We're safe here."

"Aren't you lonely?" the little boy asked. The baker's wife pulled her leaves back sharply. Everyone turned to look – Cinderella, the other trees, the children. 

"Why would we be lonely?" said Gretel. "We have the woods. We have each other."

The baker's wife looked over to some of the witch's trees – she could identify them all by sight now, without trying to reach herself out – and then at the ones belonging to Jack's mother. None of them moved. Then, slowly, a vine crept across the dirt and up the side of the tower. It crooked itself into a familiar beckoning finger. The baker's wife did not know who was guiding it this time. Perhaps it was herself. Perhaps it was all three of them together. 

The children stared at the vine.

"You want us to go?" Hansel asked quietly.

Cinderella's voice was equally soft. "They know it's best for you to see the rest of the world, to meet other people."

" _Why_?" Gretel pleaded.

"Someday you'll want to find a person to love," said Cinderella. 

The baker's wife thought of her husband and of the prince; she'd met one of them out here and it had been wonderful – but fleeting. Was that all that love could be, in the woods?

"And you may want children of your own," Cinderella continued. "That can't happen, if you stay here."

The children exchanged a look between each other. Hansel reached out for the vine, letting it curl around his fingers. "Do you really want us to go?"

The vine was still for a long moment. The baker's wife thought of the witch and the girl she'd locked away in this tower. There had been real love there – a strange, twisted love, but love nonetheless.

The vine tugged on Hansel's hand, a little more strongly now, pulling away from the tower.

"All right," he said. "All right."

The children crawled down the vine; it cradled them carefully until it could set them on their feet. Cinderella tried to put an arm around Gretel's shoulders, but she shrugged it off and took her brother's hand instead. 

The baker's wife watched her son reach for Cinderella's hand. She could not stop looking at him. She wanted to reach down and curl a branch around his waist, sweep him up into her boughs and keep him there forever. But if the others could let Hansel and Gretel go – if _she_ could let them go – then she could let her boy go, too. He'd want to find someone to love. He'd want his own children.

A branch hooked around one of her own, from the left. Another, from the right. The three of them watched their children go, go out of the woods. They'd be home before dark.


End file.
